Frequent Flyer
by RenaRoo
Summary: Master Splinter holds a talk with Donatello about his training. Turtle Tot One-Shot. Nominated for Best Chibi of the 2009 Fanfiction Competition.


I had the random urge to write this... I'm sure you other writers know what I mean.

TMNT © Viacom  
Story © Turtlefreak121

**Frequent Flyer**

It was apparent as Hamato Splinter observed the first sparring session of his young sons that one of his students would require his attention later.

Timid Donatello stood with knobbing knees and fearful eyes as his brothers leapt into a brawl. The four year olds knew their kata and understood that from time to time in this event their father called a "spar" they should use them. Young Donatello, however, stood back and watched the entire, terrifying ordeal.

"That is enough, my turtles," Master Splinter coaxed before turning his face toward the three combatants more directly. "I said enough, Raphael."

At once the four brothers gathered in their line. Three sought praise for their demonstration. One sought to melt into the background. This weakened Splinter's spirit.

"This sparring session went well, my young students," he said gingerly to Leonardo, Michelangelo, and Raphael. "Very good job. Now, do we remember how one ends a lesson properly?"

Grinning, three heads nodded. Sluggishly, one nod joined them.

Bowing, the children chimed, "Domo arigotou, Splinter-senay!"

With a simple nod, Splinter dismissed the session and immediately the three successful future warriors took off into their home. Donatello slowly made his way to the door, shameful that he took no part in his father's praises.

"Donatello," Splinter called gently. The little one turned, his head instinctually ducking back, attempting to hide within his shell. Splinter continued. "My son, do not freight. I simply wish to take an excursion with you this day. Is this favorable?"

Don frowned. He knew even at this early age that this was not truly a question because no one ever refused an offer from Master Splinter.

"Yes, Masser Splinter," the turtle sorrowfully responded before following his father.

There was no response other than the standard "woooo" from his brothers when it was announced that Master Splinter would be taking Donatello on a private walk and they would not be home until later. Everyone knew that Splinter's talks were only for turtles in trouble.

Donatello wanted nothing more than to disappear out of his situation. He wished so bad to run away from the lecture he was sure to come.

For the first while, however, they simply walked.

Unsure, Don did not question what this was for or where they were going. He was sure he knew the first and surer that the latter did not matter. There was an uneasiness of not knowing what Splinter was truly thinking about the situation that bothered him ever further.

Had he disappointed his father that much?

At last, the silence seemed to break.

"How do you feel about our lessons, Donatello?" Master Splinter questioned softly. It was so soft that it surprised Don to hear it; he had almost tuned it out in favor of the rushing waters of the sewer or the ever present noises from the surface world like the fluttering of grounded pigeons, balancing on the storm drain above their heads.

He looked at his father curiously. "How I feel?" he asked.

"Do you like them?" the gentle father questioned more directly. He smiled gently at Don. "There is no right or wrong answer, my little one. Do not be afraid to tell the truth."

This information did not aid the knots within little Donatello's stomach. He did not want to hurt Master Splinter's feelings and he certainly did not want to disappoint him, especially when his brothers were doing so well. However, Don knew that one could not lie to Master Splinter. Raphael and Michelangelo had failed enough at that for Don to know.

A car passed and the pigeons fluttered about, feather flurrying through the air and down toward the sewers.

"No," he answered honestly, his heart fluttering at the realization. It had not seemed true until he heard it aloud, from his own lips.

"Does it frighten you?" Master continued.

"Yeah," Don muttered before rubbing his face achingly. He did not like all of this questioning. He felt so bad for not being like the rest of his family, not being brave like Leo or Raph or Master. He paused his stride in a useless attempt to regain some composure.

Soft, gentle hands met Don's shoulders and he looked to see his father, kneeling to his height, right beside him with a calm, accepting smile. He seemed to understand what Donatello could not and it puzzled the young turtle yet soothed him.

The pigeons settled again near the storm drain.

"How does it make you feel, my son?" he asked yet again.

Grimacing, Don replied, "Like I wanna run away. I don't wanna be hurt."

He thought this all seemed to cowardly. It was not at all the response like the heroes on the television or in Mike's comic books or like Master Splinter himself. Master Splinter faced every challenge; he was a master after all. Donatello thought of himself more like the pigeons above, flying away from danger without any sense.

But Don was surprised to hear, "I am glad to hear this, Donatello."

The little turtle looked at him, completely perplexed. Why would he be glad to hear such a thing? Was this not everything his father had taught against?

"Why?"

A gentle chuckle emerged from Master's throat and a smile worked its way to the little turtle's face. He was so relieved to see that his father thought everything was okay. His youthful mind caused him to believe that everything was alright as well.

"I do not wish for you to be hurt either, Donatello," Splinter explained gently. "That is why I am teaching you and your brothers the arts of ninjitsu. It is a lifestyle that shall guide you and help you to protect yourselves in the greatest of perils. But you are quite advanced."

To this, Donatello grew a questioning face. He did not feel very advanced! He was always slower on his kata and in fighting he froze up. How could this be advanced when his brothers seemed to work so naturally with their own gifts?

Again, Master laughed, this time at Don's reaction. "You do not believe me, my son? Very well, I shall say this," he continued. "One of the most well trained and difficult of arts a ninja must master is control. Sometimes a ninja must know what instincts to follow."

Donatello grew curious and tilted his head. "Instincts?" he repeated.

"Yes, my son," Splinter said before looking upward to the storm drain covering where pigeons remained. Don joined him. "One must always be aware of whether he shall fight or take flight in a situation and not be overcome with more of one than the other. In that case he shall be rendered incapable of making a conscious decision."

"Like pig'ons?" Don questioned as someone walked across the pavement, scattering the birds again. He made a face. "I don't wanna be a pig'on."

"I believe some men can learn from the pigeons, my young son," Splinter revealed before smiling at young Donatello.

"But they fly away all the time," Don said. "They never fight."

To this the master hummed some and looked back up. "They do not fly from the worms or other pigeons who they can fight, Donatello," Splinter explained. "They run from what they cannot battle such as stomping feet or racing cars. They know to trust their flying instincts when they are right."

Don watched as the pigeons settled again, undaunted by their retreat.

"A good ninja can fight any battle," Splinter said wisely. "A great ninja knows when to retreat and protect himself from the trivial. I have not taught your brothers this lesson yet, Donatello. You are blessed to not have to learn it for you know it already." Splinter smiled at him. "Do not be ashamed of your instincts. Train them and use them for when the time is right."

"I like pig'ons some, Masser Splinter," Don said as Master began to walk back toward their sewer terrain. Don followed.

"Indeed, my son," the old rat chuckled. "Now, let us go home."

...

A/N: And then he found a puppet that shall live in fandom history forever~

The End


End file.
